


Raised By Wolves

by tridecaphilia



Series: Raised By Wolves [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Druid Stiles, F/M, Gen, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Male Slash, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tridecaphilia/pseuds/tridecaphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last time Stiles saw Beacon Hills, it was to say good-bye to most of his family. This time, it’s in the hope that someone might have survived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear about those tags, the relationship between Derek and Stiles in this fic is entirely platonic. It's just also very important to the story. The story is also mostly gen, but with a strong Stanny subplot and a minor Scallison one.
> 
> I found this other version of the first chapter while writing the second one. It accomplishes the same thing, but in a slightly different way. And since I prefer this one, I'm changing it. Expect an extra chapter of something tomorrow since there's nothing new today.

In fairness to Derek, it wasn’t the first time his brother had come home from school with a black eye. Still, Stiles couldn’t help wishing he would start the conversation with absolutely anything but “What did you do?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “‘Oh my god, Stiles, are you okay?’” he said flatly. “‘Yes, Derek, it’s just a bruise.”

“Oh, good,” Derek replied no less sarcastically. “Thanks for clearing that up. Now I can skip that part of the responsible-guardian lecture and go straight to ‘What the _hell_ did you do?”

“Got in a fight, what’s it look like?” Stiles kicked off his shoes, dropping his bag by the door instead of hanging it up properly. For once, Derek didn’t correct him, probably because he was busy being angry about everything else.

“Dammit, Stiles! We’re trying to keep a low profile.”

Stiles shrugged. “That’s _your_ plan. I never agreed to that. We move every few months whether I get in trouble or not, so I figure, why bother?”

“We survived the fire by luck, Stiles. Luck which isn’t helped by you pushing it like this.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Stiles’ anger, already bubbling close to the surface, exploded. “ _Luck?_ ” he yelled. “The hunters aren’t after us. No other packs have tried to kill us or recruit you. We’ve been safe for _years_ so don’t give me that bullshit. I want to be a teenager! I want friends, and dates, and sports, and dammit, if I can’t have that then I want to get into fights!”

The silence hung heavy for a long moment. Finally Derek said, “I want that for you too.” The corner of his mouth twitched in a near-smile. “Minus the fighting part.”

It was like letting the air out of a balloon, those words. The fight was over. Stiles sighed, shoulders falling from their tensed position, and he hung up the backpack on the hook. Derek beckoned him over and took his chin in his hand so he could see the bruise better. “Tell me the other guy looks worse, at least.”

Stiles grinned, opening a split lip Derek hadn’t noticed and couldn’t help wincing at. Stiles had come home looking worse—much worse—but that wasn’t much consolation when he felt like he’d failed as a brother and a guardian. “All three of them,” Stiles said, and Derek tried to suppress a second wince. “I threw itching powder on them and ran,” Stiles added.

Derek smiled for real, as proud as if he’d taught his little brother the concoction himself. “That’s something, at least. Am I going to get a call from the principal about this?”

“Doubt it. They threw all of the punches, anyway.”

“Good.” Derek nodded to the kitchen table. “Clear it off and sit down. Dinner’s heating.”

Stiles laughed and went to the table. Derek could cook better now than when they’d first started running, but they still had frozen dinners or takeout most nights. Stiles usually cooked on the weekend, and honestly both of them preferred that. But on the weekdays, he tried to do his homework at school first, so he was home too late for that.

He’d moved a file Derek was apparently working on for whatever this town’s job was when he froze. It was half-hidden under Derek’s laptop, but from what he could see…

“Stiles, where’s the oven mitt?” Derek called from the kitchen.

“By the toaster, unless you moved it,” Stiles said.

He slid the paper from under the laptop so he could confirm what he’d seen. He was right, of course. He usually was. He sat down at the table, holding the paper tightly.

In the kitchen, the oven opened and closed and the smell of fried chicken drifted out a few moments later. “Is the table cleared?” Derek asked.

Stiles jumped up. “Almost!” he yelled, scrambling to get two places clear. The article he slid under the cushion of his chair.

He didn’t give any indication that he’d seen the article as he poured himself a Pepsi and grabbed the drumsticks off the tray. It wasn’t until they were seated that he said, as casually as he could, “So are we going to visit Uncle Peter again sometime?”

Derek looked up from the wing he was attacking. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he said, and there was a note in his voice, just as careful as Stiles. Stiles had learned to control his heart rate, Derek’s was inaudible to Stiles’ ears, but they were both far too good at telling when the other was lying for it to matter. And right now Stiles knew—Derek wasn’t _quite_ lying, but he was hiding something.

“How about Laura, have you heard from her?”

Derek put down the wing. “Stiles, you haven’t asked about them in over a year. Why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”

Stiles shrugged. “Just seemed like maybe you were planning a trip home.”

Derek frowned, and finally his eyes flicked to the pile of papers on the other side of the table. Stiles could see him cataloguing the papers that should have been on the table, and his eyes widening just a fraction when he realized what was happening.

“Stiles—” he began.

“Save it. Just—were you going to tell me at all? Or was I going to come home from school to an empty house and a note saying you’d be home in a few days, like I did last time? And the times before that, for that matter?”

Derek shook his head. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

“So the note then.” Stiles didn’t raise his voice. He wasn’t calm, but he channeled his anger into the most biting sarcasm he could manage. “Were you going to find somewhere for me to stay, or is sixteen too old for sleepovers?”

Derek glared at Stiles, eyes flashing blue. Stiles raised his eyebrows and took a sip of Pepsi without breaking eye contact. Totally unconcerned. It wasn’t the first time Derek had tried to play Alpha, and it wouldn’t be the last; but Stiles hadn’t spent so long fighting werewolf dominance games just to turn around and give in to his favorite and last surviving brother.

Derek blinked and his eyes went back to normal. “You’re not coming,” he said.

“Then you’re not going.”

“Yes, I am.’

“Then I’m going with you.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll drop out of school.”

It was the one threat he really had that had weight behind it. Their position was such that Stiles would never call the cops on Derek for negligence. Likewise, he wouldn’t go to the Argents for sanctuary. But dropping out? There wasn’t a teenager alive who couldn’t say that and mean it, and Stiles knew if he actually did it Derek wouldn’t be able to do anything. Sixteen was old enough to drop out, and Derek couldn’t send Stiles away for the same reason Stiles couldn’t report him.

That knowledge pressed on both of them like a lead blanket as Derek thought it over. Not that there was much to think about, really—Stiles had chosen his threat well. Finally he sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’ll have to withdraw,” he warned.

“Derek, it’s the middle of August. Every school system with an ounce of sense is still on vacation.”

Derek couldn’t help smiling at that. “Fine, you’ll have to start school twice this year.”

“Fine.”

“We leave in two days.”

Stiles refrained from yelling—but the acid in his voice was just as sharp as a shout would have been. “Wow, that soon, you sure? I hear it costs more if you buy last-minute.”

Derek barely blinked, but it was enough to tell Stiles he’d bought his own ticket already. Stiles’ would be easy enough to get. “They are,” he said evenly. He looked down at the chicken sitting on Stiles’ plate. “Finish your dinner.”

Stiles ate, although he was barely able to taste the food. After six years of running, six years certain he’d lost all his family _again_ , he was finally going home. And if the spiral in a dead deer’s side was to be believed, it would be to find at least one member of his family still gloriously alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't see it, you might want to take a look at the new chapter one. It manages the same things, but does it better.
> 
> Also, this chapter introduces Harvey. She's not technically an OC, but a character who was written out of canon. You remember the girl who shared one line with Scott and Stiles in the pilot when Allison showed up and was then never heard from again? She was supposed to be a recurring/main character, but for whatever reason was written out. I'm writing her back in, since I had a void when I removed Stiles from Scott's life and she seemed like a good to fill it.

The house was different. Usually Derek picked either apartments so small they barely fit and no one would notice when they moved out suddenly, or such a big house that it seemed like he was forgetting that almost all the rest of the Hales were, well, _dead_. This was neither. This was a small, one-story house closer to the center of Beacon Hills than they’d been when they were still a pack. Like everything else Derek got for them, it came pre-furnished. But the house told Stiles more than anything else had that they were there to stay.

Derek hopped out of the truck, looking over the house with a wistful half-smile on his face. “Home sweet home,” he said. “At least for now.”

Stiles looked over his shoulder at his big brother. “We’re not leaving again,” he objected. “You promised.”

“Yeah, well, things happen.” Still, Derek seemed happy to be there too. “Okay,” he said, patting the back of the truck. “Time to help me unpack, little brother.”

Stiles sighed in mock frustration and slung his satchel over his shoulder. One of the only benefits of traveling light like they did was that there was never much to unpack. They’d managed to fit everything they were taking into the maximum two-suitcases-and-a-carry-on allowed per person on a plane.

How long had Derek been holding this place? Stiles wondered. He couldn’t have gotten it at the last minute, not this nice house in this nice area of Beacon Hills. And he couldn’t have gotten the key so fast, either. He must have been planning this a long time.

Stiles couldn’t stop a smile and didn’t try. Derek had been planning to come home and he hadn’t even told his little brother.

Jerk.

Derek opened the door onto a living room. It was a wide open space, all the chairs pushed to the sides. When Derek pulled back the shades, it let in light from an entire wall of windows.

Through the living room was the dining room and kitchen, separated only by a buffet peninsula. Derek dropped his own carry-on—a hiking backpack; Derek stayed practical with his work gear—onto the dining room table. Stiles dropped his as well and slid the hat off his head.

Derek pointed to the hat, shaking his head. “That stays on.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Another headshake and a pitiful attempt at a scowl. “Unless you’re in the house or in the school, the hat stays on. Glasses stay on unless you’re in the house and there are no visitors here. Got it?”

Stiles rolled his eyes skyward. “We are in the house, Derek.”

“We have things to get. Come on. Faster we get this done the sooner you can take them off.”

Stiles groaned, pulled the knit cap back on, and followed Derek. This was _annoying._ It wasn’t like the hunters were waiting to ambush them as soon as they opened the door…

There were two kids standing outside when Derek opened the door again.

Okay, so maybe there was a reason to leave the shrouds on.

“Hey,” said the girl. She was dark-skinned and her crinkly black hair was pulled into a ponytail at the top of her head. It was long enough and natural enough to fan out wildly from there. “I’m Harvey Reid. This is Scott McCall. We saw the truck and thought maybe we could help you unpack.”

“We don’t have a lot,” Derek began.

Screw that. These guys didn’t look like hunters, and Stiles was tired of keeping a low profile and not making friends.

“Sure,” he said, sliding past Derek and back toward the car. “I’m Stiles Hale. My sour-looking big brother back there is Derek.”

“Did you say _Hale?_ ” Harvey asked.

Derek was glaring at him, Stiles could feel it; but he ignored it, handing one suitcase to Scott and another to Harvey. They could get everything inside in one more trip this way. His own main suitcase, which contained his kit among other things, he carried himself.

Derek got the last suitcase and slammed the gate to the truck shut. He locked it with the remote and stormed back inside.

“Your room’s on the left,” he told Stiles, pointing down the hall. “The one on the right is mine.”

“Cool,” Stiles said. He beckoned Harvey with him, directing Scott to set the suitcase he had in Derek’s room.

The room, even more than the house itself, told him just how long Derek had been keeping this house in reserve. Toys that Derek had salvaged from the house fire were lined up on the dresser, and the walls were painted green, which had been Stiles’ favorite color at the time. The bed was a full-size bed, which would need to be replaced since Stiles had grown a lot the past few years, and was covered with a camouflage comforter.

Stiles flatly refused to get nostalgic looking at it. “Geez, Derek, there is such a thing as ‘too prepared’,” he muttered instead, dropping his suitcase on the floor. Derek would hear him, no matter where he was in the house. Stiles and Derek had been alone too long; they oriented themselves around each other.

“What?” Harvey asked behind him.

Oops. “Nothing,” he said, smiling at her. “I just didn’t know Derek had gotten the place set up like this.”

Harvey nodded, dropping the suitcase she carried beside the bed and looking around the room. “I think you’ll need to update a few things,” she said with a grin, pointing to the Nintendo 64 sitting under the TV. The TV could use updating too, Stiles decided; it was a tiny model and not remotely HD.

He laughed. “Probably,” he agreed. He grinned at her. “Let’s go back and see how we can avoid doing more to help set up, shall we?”

Harvey laughed too. “You know, we did come here to help with that,” she said.

“I know. But it’s way more fun to make Derek do it. He’s stronger anyway.”

Derek, to his credit, pretended he hadn’t heard that. He and Scott were seated at the dining room table, sodas opened in front of them and a bag of chips between them. “Stiles,” he said when he saw him. Anyone else would have smiled, but Derek wouldn’t risk anything like relief until the new people were gone. If Stiles was a nicer brother he would have told Harvey and Scott to come back later—like after Derek was satisfied that this place was home and safe and _theirs_ —but he was a little brother; it was his job to make Derek’s life hell.

“Hey,” Stiles said. He headed past Derek to the kitchen. “You get this stocked already?” he asked.

“I’ve had someone keeping this place up for years,” Derek said. “I just added some money for them to stock the kitchen this time.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. An N64, Derek, really?” Stiles grinned and grabbed a Mountain Dew. High caffeine content: good. “What do you want to drink?” he asked Harvey.

“Another one of those is fine.” She took the seat beside Scott.

Stiles nodded, getting a second can of soda and kicking the fridge door shut. He sat between Harvey and Derek and cracked his own can of soda open. Harvey grabbed hers and did the same.

Derek looked between them. “I’m going to work in the yard a while,” he said, standing.

“Are you kidding me? We just got here. Take a break, Derek.”

Derek gave him a level stare and turned back toward the outside. Of course he wouldn't like that idea.

The dining room, like the living room, had a wall of glass; but this wall opened onto an annex entirely walled in glass, which in turn led to a massive backyard. Stiles was starting figure out why Derek had picked this place. The third bedroom, empty and waiting to be converted to a spare bedroom or an office, only increased the suspicion. “You’re starting at Beacon Hills High tomorrow, don’t forget," Derek said, heading out. "Maybe your new friends can fill you in on what you need to know.”

“Great,” Stiles said.

“So are you guys _those_ Hales?” Harvey asked once Derek was outside. “The ones—”

“The house fire? Yeah.” Stiles took another swig of soda and grabbed a handful of chips. Having a full mouth tended to discourage awkward questions.

“Geez,” Scott said. “I’m sorry. You two…?”

“We were at school.” Stiles shook his head. “No offense, but I _really_ don’t want to talk about this.”

“Of course. Sorry.” Harvey looked between the boys, apparently thinking of a better topic. “So, Stiles, do you play lacrosse?”

“Lacrosse?” Stiles asked. He raised his eyebrows. “No, should I?”

It occurred to him that he could finally take the stupid hat off now that they were done bringing things in. He dropped it on the table and scuffed a hand through his hair to fix it. The hat _itched._

“Well, Scott does.” Harvey smiled. “It’s kind of—we don’t do football around here. Lacrosse rules the school instead.”

“It’s just as violent, though,” Scott warned him. He grinned, a bright infectious grin that made Stiles grin back without thinking about it.

“And you play?” Stiles asked.

“Well, technically…”

“He’s on the team,” Harvey said. “And he’s totally going to make first string this year. We’ve been practicing—he’s gotten really good.”

“You play?”

“No, I play softball,” she explained. “And tennis, not that that matters. But thanks to softball I’ve got a wicked throwing arm, and Scott can use the practice as a goalie.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah…” Scott looked embarrassed, looking down at his drink. Pepsi. Heresy in the Hale house. Why had Derek even gotten any?

“What?” Stiles asked.

Scott shrugged. "I just used to have problems with asthma," he said. "I haven't made first string before."

“But it got better this summer,” Harvey interjected. “You know sometimes you just grow out of things like that? Well he did.”

Stiles wasn’t sure that asthma was one of the things you could grow out of, but he just nodded.

“That’s great,” he said. “Then you’ll be playing first string this year, right?”

Scott smiled. It was just a shade less bright than the first one, but still infectious. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Yeah, I will.”

“Good.” Stiles grinned and then leaned in, suddenly going mock-serious. “Okay, guys. I need your help with something. I need to know who the worst teachers are so I don’t get on their bad side.”

It was a joke, of course. Mainly because Stiles didn’t know how not to get on teachers’ bad sides. Medication and the stuff in his kit could control his ADD pretty well, but not completely and not forever.

Harvey and Scott laughed. “Okay,” Harvey said. “So the first thing you need to know is that Mr. Harris? Total dickwad.”

Stiles tried to listen, but he was distracted for a moment when Scott looked at her. There were no claws, no glow to his eyes—but Stiles knew. Growing up in a pack, he had to know. Too sharp a head movement; a moment where his eyes were too alert. A boy who'd grown out of asthma over the summer and now was strong enough to carry Derek's massive suitcase... It added up in the moment Scott turned his head.

His new friend Scott was a werewolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to think that Scott is a little less certain of himself with new people, and especially without Stiles' influence in his life. With people he's comfortable with--or even with people he's showing off too--he's still the Scott we all know and love, and you'll see more of that in the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

To no one’s surprise, Derek had wanted Stiles to stay home for the first day of school. But they’d gotten there and set up just in time for Stiles to start with everyone else, and there was no way in hell he was going to miss that opportunity. He almost always started in the middle of the year, always sure to be dragged up and made to introduce himself in front of everyone.

So, with Scott and Harley to show him around, he started his junior year of high school at the same time that everyone else in his grade did.

Scott had relaxed a lot over the past few days, which probably had as much to do with Derek being around less as with getting to know Stiles. If Stiles had learned anything from growing up with werewolves—and he definitely had—it was that werewolves didn’t get along with strange werewolves. That was the whole point of emissaries. Well, that and trying to defuse tension with the hunters.

 _Which had gone so well for the Hales,_ Stiles thought. Now that he was back in Beacon Hills he couldn’t help being bitter about his years away and the hunters who’d caused them, although he tried to ignore it enough to pay attention to what Scott and Harley were telling him.

“That’s Lydia,” Harley said, pointing to a redheaded girl walking through the hall with a jock guy’s arm slung around her shoulders. “She practically owns the school. Keep that in mind and try not to get your head bitten off. She’s smarter than she looks, and twice as catty.”

Stiles nodded, but he wondered if Harley was being entirely objective. Something was _off_ about Lydia in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. It showed better through the glasses, which would explain why Harley didn’t notice it. Humans were usually more sensitive to such things.

“Who’s her boyfriend?” Stiles asked.

There was an eyeroll in Harley’s voice now. “Jackson. He’s been captain of the lacrosse team since he was a freshman.”

“Lacrosse, right.” Stiles remembered that. He turned to Scott, raising an eyebrow. “So he’s your rival?”

Harley snorted, but Scott nodded, a confident half-smirk on his face. “Totally,” he said.

Stiles grinned. “Good,” he said. “Kick his ass, all right?”

Without warning Harley made a grab for his hat. Stiles jumped back without thinking. “What?”

“Harris is coming,” Harley said. “Hats are against dress code. Take it off, now.”

Stiles snatched the hat off and stuffed it in his satchel just in time. The teacher Harley had indicated barely spared them a glance on his way to his classroom.

“Why do you wear that, anyway?” Harley asked. “It’s not exactly cold out.”

Stiles scuffed a hand through his hair to erase the evidence of hat head. “Derek’s paranoid. My immune system was crap when I was a kid, and he’s always afraid I’m going to get sick again.” Well, insert “relatively” before the immune system comment and replace “sick” with “injured” and it was the truth. He changed the subject before any more questions could come up. “So who’s the brunette?” he asked, nodding to the girl Lydia and Jackson had stopped to talk to.

“No idea,” Harley said.

“Her name’s Allison,” Scott said at the same time.

Stiles and Harley both looked at him. Stiles tried not to show how concerning that comment was. Did Scott know what was happening to him? Showing off his hearing would make sense if Harley knew, but Stiles didn’t, or rather Scott didn’t—shouldn’t—know Stiles did…

 _Way too many unknowns there, Stiles,_ he told himself. _Let it go._

Harley asked for him. “How’d you know that?”

Scott shrugged. “I overheard it,” he said. He didn’t seem too concerned with that; his eyes were still on Allison.

Stiles recognized the look in Scott’s eyes, and when he looked at Harley she gave him a smirk that said she recognized it too. He managed not to snicker aloud.

“So,” he said instead. “She’s new?”

“Yeah,” Harvey agreed. “And apparently she’s already in with Lydia’s crowd.”

“Lydia has a crowd?”

“Is there a Queen Bee who doesn’t?” Harley rolled her eyes. “Mostly she hangs out with the lacrosse team and a few girls who want to be like her. She rules them all, even more than she rules the school.”

Stiles looked back at her. Still that something off—could she have a glamour? Something to draw people to her? That would explain everything Harley had told him, but it didn’t seem quite right.

“Anyway,” Scott said, “we should get to class.” He still had the lovestruck glow in his eyes. “We’ve all got math first, right?”

Stiles nodded. Scott led the way to the classroom.

Stiles’ least favorite part of starting a new school was the new-kid dilemma—where to sit to draw the least attention and avoid standing out. This time, he was saved from that. Derek, when Stiles had pleaded with him, had gotten his schedule arranged to match Scott and Harley’s, so all he had to do was sit with them. Scott and Harley sat near the middle, catty-corner to each other. At Scott’s gestured invitation, Stiles took the seat behind Harley and to Scott’s left.

The math teacher, who according to Scott was also the lacrosse coach, was… odd. Any more accurate description would fall into the category of “not appropriate to use to describe a teacher”. Coach Finstock at least didn’t make Stiles do the dreaded new-kid speech, so Stiles mentally marked him as “probably safe”.

In fact, the only teacher who _did_ make him introduce himself that morning was the history teacher, a large man whose attention seemed to be so far elsewhere that Stiles suspected he only made him speak so that he didn’t have to talk as long. When he did start the lesson, it was in a drone that nearly sent Stiles to sleep.

“Please tell me the other teachers aren’t that boring,” he said to Scott and Harley as they left the room and headed to lunch.

Harley laughed. Scott grinned. “Not nearly that bad,” he said. “Harris is way too scary to risk falling asleep, and the other teachers are at least good at pretending they care about their subject.”

“That’s a relief.”

They reached the lunchroom and took up their trays. The food here, Stiles decided when he had finished dishing it up, was better than most places he’d been. Then again, it would have been hard to be worse than Desert Bluffs food. Textureless protein compounds dyed and molded to look like actual food. All of the nutrients, none of the flavor or texture or anything that could lend it appeal. Stiles had never thought until then that he’d be nostalgic for standard cafeteria mush, but when they’d moved to Weldon in Maine he’d been so relieved to see the same old crap on his plate he’d been the only one to finish his meal on a regular basis. Boring-but-safe chicken nuggets and tater tots were definitely better than either of those.

Harley and Scott debated Scott’s strategy for the lacrosse tryouts after school while Stiles looked around the cafeteria. His eyes drifted inevitably toward Lydia. The redhead was sitting with Jackson again, along with the brunette Allison and another boy he didn’t know.

“Hey,” he interrupted. “Who’s that?” He pointed with the straw he was preparing to unwrap.

Scott and Harley looked over to see who it was. “Danny?” Scott asked. He raised his eyebrows, turning back to Stiles. “You mean the dark-haired guy, right?”

Stiles nodded. There were a few others, but Danny was the one he’d noticed.

“Danny Mahealani. He’s the goalie,” Scott said. “For lacrosse. Been first string since freshman year, just like Jackson.”

“He’s also totally gay,” Harley said. She sounded innocent until Stiles looked at her and saw her smirk.

So sue him. He wasn’t good at subtlety. Usually didn’t care enough to try. And yeah, Danny was good-looking. That didn’t mean anything. Like as not they’d be out of here and off to Nowhere, USA in a few weeks, if not because Derek didn’t find anything then because Derek decided it wasn’t safe.

But maybe they wouldn’t. The house…

“And he’s best friends with Jackson,” Scott said. His expression, friendly if bemused, said he hadn’t noticed Stiles’ interest in the goalie. “And one of the best in math and science at the school.”

Harley opened her mouth to say something. Stiles decided to change the subject before this got any more embarrassing. “Hey, Scott,” he said. “I noticed you talking to Allison at math. How’d that go?”

Suitably distracted, Harley turned to the task of ribbing Scott about his crush. Mission accomplished.

*

 Derek hadn’t said anything to Stiles. He didn’t want his little brother to worry. But he’d called Laura a dozen times since they’d decided to come back to Beacon Hills, and she hadn’t replied once. He’d made sure to make all the calls where Stiles couldn’t hear, thankful for nearly the first time that Stiles wasn’t a werewolf. The past few days while Stiles was out with Scott and Harley, Derek had spent time calling hospitals and morgues, trying to see if a woman matching Laura’s description had been found. Besides her and Derek and Stiles, the only living Hale had been catatonic for six years.

Then last night he’d found a single article. It had been tucked away, not enough information to make the headlines despite the horror of it. A dead woman. Caucasian. Bisected. Only half of her had been found. Forensic experts estimated her age to be late twenties, height five feet nine inches, weight 180 lbs.

He could have brushed it off as coincidence. He would have liked to brush it off as coincidence. But bisected… That meant hunters, more likely than not.

So here he was, while Stiles was in school, out in the area where half a body had been found and looking for the other half. And at last, he’d found it—or rather, he’d found the place it was most likely to be. There was no other likely reason for a grave outside the burned shell of the Hale house to be wrapped in wolfsbane.

He’d need to find someone he could trick or bribe into pulling up the wolfsbane and digging up the grave to be absolutely sure, but he didn’t really think he needed it. The easiest thing to do, of course, would be to get Stiles to dig up the grave; but that would defeat the purpose of not having told Stiles everything already. Bringing Stiles with him to Beacon Hills had been one thing; Stiles was good at blackmail and he did deserve to come home with Derek. Dragging the kid this far into danger, though… If Talia were still alive, she’d kill him for that.

So instead, he carved a spiral into a tree beside the ruined house and left to start digging for Laura’s killer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Everything I know about lacrosse came from Teen Wolf.

The afternoon went faster than the morning. Even the dreaded Mr. Harris didn’t make Stiles stand up and give the new kid speech. Sooner than he would have expected, it was time for lacrosse tryouts.

Harley and Stiles headed to the bleachers to watch and wait while Scott changed into his uniform.

“You seem tense,” Harley said. “You know they’re going to be protected, right?”

Stiles nodded. “I know. Just seen more than a few things go wrong on the field.”

Not that the things he was thinking of could be stopped by a few pads, but he couldn’t exactly explain that to Harley.

He really should have found a way to talk to Scott about it before this, but there was no tactful way to bring it up. Or a way that didn’t sound utterly insane, for that matter. And anyway, Stiles could handle it if anything happened. Scott was new enough, and it was far enough from the full moon, that probably nothing _would_ happen.

He hoped.

Harley’s phone went off just as the players filed back onto the field. She checked it and groaned. “Of course.” She shook her head. “My dad got called into an emergency meeting, which means I have to take Sammy to her doctor’s appointment.” She stood up, pulling her backpack back onto her shoulders. “Cheer for both of us, would you?”

Stiles nodded. “’Course,” he said, smiling at her. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Sorry I can’t stay.”

Stiles shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “Go help your sister. I’ll call you tonight, tell you how it went.”

“Great,” she said, and headed down from the bleachers.

Stiles wasn’t alone for long, though. He’d barely settled back down when another person, one he didn’t know, sat beside him. Looking over he saw brown curls and pale skin—Allison Argent, Scott’s crush.

“Came to watch tryouts?” he asked.

“Yep.” She smiled and stretched out her legs, leaning back on her hands. “My dad works for another hour and I don’t have a car of my own, so I figured this was the best use of my time.”

“Probably true.”

“Yeah, but it looks like most people wait for the actual games to come watch.” She laughed.

Stiles shrugged. “My brother works for another couple hours too,” he said. He didn’t mention that Derek worked from home, so he could have come to get Stiles any time he wanted. Stiles had told Derek he wanted to stay for lacrosse tryouts. “Scott’s my only real friend here, so I came to cheer him on.”

“That’s right, you’re new too!” Allison said.

Stiles raised his eyebrows at her. “Really? You’re going to pretend you didn’t come sit with me because I’m the only other new kid?”

She gave him an utterly angelic smile and shrugged. “Guilty.”

Stiles grinned and decided to humor her. She was nice enough, and they both wanted to avoid being the new kid alone. “So is your dad’s work why you guys moved to Beacon Hills?”

“Yep.” She nodded. “It’s why we’ve been to half the states in the country since I was born.”

“Ouch.” He meant it. He hadn’t moved nearly that often, and he and Derek had only been running for six years. “So you’ll be gone in a few months, probably.”

“Probably. What about you?”

Stiles had to think about that. The house, versus six years of running.

“Probably the same,” he admitted. “Derek…” He shook his head and ended up giving a half-truth. “We lost our family in an accident a few years ago. I don’t think he’s ever felt safe making a home since then.”

“Oh, God,” Allison whispered. She covered his hand with hers. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Stiles said, stubbornly looking out at the field. He didn’t know what to do with sympathy. It didn’t bring anyone back. It didn’t make him any less of an orphan, twice at that. All it did, most days, was remind him of the loss and make him feel correspondingly worse.

“So,” Allison said, “are you going to try out?”

Stiles shook his head, although he was grateful for the change of topic. “What would even be the point?” he asked. “We’ll be gone in a few months.”

“Well, have you ever tried a sport?”

“Not for a team,” Stiles admitted.

Allison leaned in. “Your brother doesn’t feel safe putting down roots. Maybe if you do it first, he’ll give it a shot.”

Stiles looked at her, then at the field. Was it worth a shot?

 _It’s not like Derek can leave any sooner because I tried out,_ he reasoned. Of course, Derek didn’t like him making a scene, or any kind of name for himself for that matter. So he might.

Screw it. They’d probably move soon anyway, and Stiles wanted to do something this time.

He stood up, putting his glasses in their case and sliding the case into his kit, which he slung over his shoulder. He headed down to the field.

“Coach,” he said. “I want to try out.”

Coach Finstock looked at him like Stiles had an extra head, or maybe he was just surprised. “Who’re you?” he asked.

“Stiles Hale,” he said. “I just moved here.”

“Hale,” Finstock said, like he recognized the name and was trying to place it. He squinted at Stiles. “You related to Derek?”

Stiles nodded. “He’s my brother.”

“I remember him. Good kid. Good player. I was sad he had to leave.” Finstock frowned, still watching Stiles. “You play before?”

“Not for school,” Stiles admitted. “Moved around too much.”

Finstock nodded slowly. “Danny!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Get the new kid a set of pads. He’s going to try out.”

Danny (Mahealani, according to his jersey) turned out to be the goalie. He helped Stiles find a spare set of pads and a jersey. He also let Stiles put his kit in his locker, only raising an eyebrow at how heavy it was. The only sticking point was when he told Stiles to ditch the hat.

“I can’t,” Stiles said.

“Why not?” Danny shook his head. “No one cares if you have hat hair. You’re not supposed to wear a hat on the field, just helmets.”

“I run cold,” Stiles blurted out because it was the first thing that came to mind. He really couldn’t explain the truth, not to Danny. “It’s a health thing, that means the school has to accommodate it, right?”

He could have sworn Danny’s mouth twitched. “Right.”

~

“Ready, Coach,” Danny announced when he and Stiles returned to the field a few minutes later.

“Good!” Coach Finstock turned to the assembled boys (and one girl). He didn’t so much as blink at the hat, but then again, he hadn’t remembered Stiles at all, so clearly his focus wasn’t all that. “So, here’s the deal. You do well here, you make first line. You play. You don’t do well, and you end up sitting on the bench. Now get out there. McCall! You’re on goal.”

Scott approached Finstock hesitantly. “Coach, I’ve never played goal before.”

“I know,” Finstock said. “I figure it’ll get the guys’ confidence up to score some easy goals.”

Stiles tried not to be worried about that. No goal against a werewolf was ever _easy._

 _Scott will be fine,_ he told himself.

He didn’t have time to think beyond that, though, because they were in position and Jackson Whittemore was up and throwing the ball as hard as he could at the net… and Scott was catching it.

Stiles glanced at Finstock. The coach wasn’t even trying to hide his amazement.

Scott blocked every ball the team threw at him, and then it was Stiles’ turn.

He scooped up the ball, holding it as he looked at Scott. _Don’t think,_ he reminded himself. He threw the ball as hard as he could at the corner of the net.

Scott caught it. Obviously. _At least he hasn’t wolfed out,_ Stiles thought.

When Scott had thoroughly dominated the shooting drill, Finstock put them to more drills, followed by scrimmage. And by some strange series of circumstances that mostly involved Finstock mentioning Derek and Stiles not wanting to explain he was adopted and so didn’t actually have the same genetic advantage that had let Derek kick ass at offense, Stiles found himself with the lacrosse ball in front of him and Jackson Whittemore charging him.

_Don’t think._

It was one rule he’d learned very well as the only human in the Hale pack. All his siblings and cousins were bigger and stronger than he was. His only recourse was to drill everything into his muscles until they acted automatically, and when the time came, to act on instinct and _not think_.

So that was what he did.

He scooped up the ball in an easy motion and rather than avoiding Whittemore, ran straight at him. He ducked his shoulder and bent his knees, using his momentum and angle to lever the other boy over his shoulder. He spun out of reach of another player, and he was off.

It felt like flying. Stiles hadn’t been able to do anything like this in ages—too busy running, too busy _not making a scene,_ and now that he’d decided to give that up, now that he was _doing_ something, competing like he hadn’t in six years—now he didn’t want to stop. He wasn’t sure he _could_. He ducked and weaved and spun and when there were too many people heading toward him he found Scott and threw him the ball right before the other guys tackled him.

He was laughing when he hit the ground.

~

“Dude, that was _awesome!_ ” Scott said in the locker room, pounding Stiles on the back with enough force that Stiles almost made a crack about werewolf strength before he remembered Scott didn’t _know._ “You told me you didn’t play!”

Stiles shrugged, a little sheepish. “I haven’t before,” he said. “Unless you’re counting summer camp back when I was like twelve years old. We did a lot of sports there but none of us were very good.”

“So what, you’re going to tell me you just made that up?”

 _No, I trained to defend myself against hunters and other packs,_ was what he thought.

“I learned it in a different context,” was what he said aloud.

“Well, it was awesome.”

“You’re not mad?” Stiles asked. He didn’t think Scott was, but he’d been wrong before.

“Dude, of course not! We made first line together! Why would I be mad about that?”

Stiles smiled and shrugged. “Guess no reason,” he said. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Scott waved and headed to his locker, and Stiles back to Danny’s to get his kit and his shirt.

Danny grinned when he saw him and nodded to Stiles’ kit, already waiting on the bench. He was shirtless, in the middle of changing; Stiles tried unsuccessfully not to notice. “Those were some great moves out there,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Hey,” Danny said. He pulled his normal shirt back on and turned to face Stiles, leaning against the locker. “Are you busy on Friday?”

Stiles’ heart sped up. “Um, no,” he said. He tried not to let his voice squeak. “No, I’m not.”

“Great.” Danny grinned. “After practice, you want to go for coffee?”

Stiles hadn’t been giddy over anyone, male or female, in years. But he also hadn’t been on a date in years, or even had someone he wanted to go on a date with. So he thought he was entitled to a little giddiness.

“Absolutely,” he said.

Danny’s smile widened. “Good. See you then.”


End file.
